The Skipping Stone
by NostalgiaandBurgers
Summary: Humans are funny little things. Kick them down and they'll pop back up swinging. Give one superhuman speed and he'll alter the timeline. But they're also fickle, easy to anger and guilt and mystify with questions like: What's the meaning of life? Barry Allen changed the timeline, and now he has a problem. Good thing he's human.
1. Lost Coastlines

**The Skipping Stone**

Humans are funny little things. Kick them down and they'll pop back up swinging. Give them love and they'll defend it to the death. Give one superhuman speed and he'll alter the timeline.

But they're also fickle, easy to anger and guilt and mystify with questions like: What's the meaning of life?

Barry Allen changed the timeline, and now he has a problem. Good thing he's human.

 **This short story takes place after the events of the season 2 finale, and draws several elements from the season 3 trailer. It's not really necessary to view it, but some things will make slightly more sense in the Flashpoint Timeline.**

 **Otherwise, view this as an AU. This covers dark themes and I am certain that the show will not go in this direction I have chosen to write.**

 **Enjoy! Make sure to leave a review!**

 **UPDATE: There seems to have been a lot of problems with the page breaks. They are all fixed now (hopefully...)!**

 **Chapter 1: Lost Coastlines**

 _When you're young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away… You think you can get rid of things, and people too—leave them behind._

 _You don't yet know about the habit they have, of coming back._

 **Pre-Flashpoint Timeline, 2010.**

"Um, excuse me, pardon me—oh God, sorry 'bout the coffee, ma'am, truly—'scuse me—"

A streak was making its way through the bustling Central City sidewalk. Specifically, a bumbling, apologetic streak.

Barry Allen was about to be painfully, _painfully_ late for his first day at work, and the only thought that was on his mind was: _Joe is going to_ kill _me._ He was the one who pulled a few strings to land him the job, after all.

"8 o'clock sharp, he said. Don't be late, he said. Does he even _know me_?" he whined, sidestepping around a fragile old woman with a walker. He'd learned the hard way that trying to brush past them resulted in a lot of bruised egos and nasty remarks from the onlookers. Not that he blamed them, really.

Barry skidded around the corner, feeling his shouldered case smack squarely into his thigh. He ignored the pain, though, as an impressive structure came into view. The Central City Police Department. He'd never been so glad to see that damn building.

"One more block, one more crossing, c'mon," he muttered, glancing down at his watch. With any luck he'd be only ten minutes late—and that's reasonable, right? _Right?_

He broke out into a flat sprint down the sidewalk, his breath coming in as huffs in the cool autumn air. Pedestrians watched with avid amusement at the gangly sprinter, a very poor man's Usain Bolt.

For a moment he thought he'd make it. But of course, this is Barry Allen we're talking about. As soon as his heel grazed the asphalt of the final crossroad, the light turned red. _STOP_ , said the sign.

"Oh, _dammit_!" said Barry.

"Hush, you!" said the elderly woman next to him, disapprovingly. She shook her head. "Kids these days, no manners…" she grumbled.

Barry resisted the urge to "accidentally" give her a knock and settled for an eye-roll. He felt his phone buzz and fished it out from his pocket. _You better get your ass here soon_ , the text from Joe read.

"I'm working on it," he growled, stuffing it back.

He sighed, ruffling his hair. _Well_ …

Looks like he was left with only one option: run like hell.

"Nice knowing ya," he shot at the old lady, then took off into the middle of the road, dodging cars and hopping over hoods amid a cacophony of blaring horns.

"What type of drugs are they giving the kids now?" wondered the old lady, watching the dancing Barry in awe.

After what seemed like an eternity, Barry finally made it across. He stopped for a second. It was like Columbus stepping foot in the New World.

He had just enough time to drop his things off in the office. It was possible that Singh wouldn't even notice that his newest employee was cutting it close.

Barry double-timed it up the steps and threw open the door—

—and found himself nose-to-nose with none other than the captain himself. "A-aah, Singh! I mean—Captain!"

The captain coolly raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Barry's sudden entrance. "And you are…?" Behind him, Barry caught sight of Joe, facepalming.

"B-Barry Allen, sir!"

"You're the new CSI?" Singh's eye roamed over Barry's damp forehead, disheveled clothing, and coffee-stained sleeves. "Hmm." He turned to Joe, who was still facepalming. "This is him, right?"

Joe snapped out of it quickly. "Yes, this is um, my guy." Barry gave him a pleading look over Singh's shoulder, his eyes begging, _HELP ME JOE HELP_.

Joe sighed. Why did he always have to clean up his kid's messes? Ah, the trials of fatherhood. He bent in closer to Singh's ear. "He may look like a shaggy dog," he whispered, "but he's got a good head on his shoulders."

Singh's glare softened. If anything, he trusted Joe's judgement. "Alright, Mr. Allen," he drawled, facing Barry again. "I'm Captain Singh. You report to me on a daily basis for assignments." He stuck out his hand. "It's good to have you on the team. I've heard great things about you."

Barry inwardly whooped in celebration. _I'm not screwed!_

To the rest of the world, he took Singh's hand and gave it a hearty shake. "Pleasure to be here, sir," he replied back, grinning.

"Good," said Singh, "because you're about to go on your first assignment." He and Joe stepped past the stunned Barry, striding purposefully down the steps. " _Follow_ us, nitwit," Joe hissed at Barry as he walked by.

Barry unfroze. "M-my first assignment?" He stumbled to catch up to the duo. "Right now? But I haven't—"

Singh spared Barry a backwards glance. "You need a potty break, Mr. Allen?"

"No, but—"

"Then I'm sure whatever you need to do can wait until afterward," he said drily, stopping next to silver sedan on the side of the road. He climbed into the driver's seat, Joe into the passenger's. Barry hurriedly stuffed himself into the back.

"You picked quite the day to join us," remarked Singh, starting up the car.

"Why's that?"

"One helluva case. I haven't even finished my coffee before I got the report." Singh looked over at Joe. "Mind giving him the details?"

Joe nodded. "We're looking at what appears to be a murder-suicide. According to initial reports, a married couple—the Hydes—got into an argument late last night. The husband, Billy Hyde, might have been intoxicated but that's purely speculation. At any rate, it escalated. Billy Hyde pulled a gun, shot and killed the wife, then himself. Neighbors called the police after hearing the shots and screaming. Their twelve-year old son, Billy Junior, was the only survivor. He's in police custody right now, no relatives anywhere nearby."

Barry swallowed. He couldn't help but draw similarities to another crime that occurred around a decade ago.

Singh noticed his silence and observed him from the rearview mirror. "Problem, kid?"

Barry furrowed his eyebrows. "This is just a lot to take in on my first day, you know? It's heavy stuff—"

Singh stomped on the brakes, cutting Barry off instantly. He shifted in his car seat to face his newest employee, who was fighting a losing battle with his seat belt.

"Listen: if you don't think you're ready for this, the door is right there. I know you're just a rookie, but in life there are no training wheels. Especially not for us. My first case dealt with a notorious rapist and murdering bastard." He stared hard at Barry. "I'll give you one last chance. Are you ready for this?"

Barry hadn't come this far to have his mission squandered by some petty nerves. He wasn't the only one with something at stake here; his dad was still rotting away in jail, his son his only hope at freedom.

He couldn't fail him now.

Barry nodded once, squaring his shoulders. "Yes, sir," he affirmed.

"Good." Singh, satisfied, put his foot to the gas once more. "Let's get to work, boys."

* * *

"… and judging from the blood spatter, he aimed at her from an upwards position. I'd venture to say that she was in a prone position prior to being shot, which explains why we found the shell casing over there. It was a clean shot for both of them, Captain. In all likelihood, they died immediately."

Barry drew in a breath, ready to continue, but Singh waved him off with a weary hand. "That'll do for now, Mr. Allen. We have more than enough information. Anything else you have can go in your written report. I'll have Diane show you our template for that when we get back." He tugged at his jacket, somberly looking around the destroyed home. The bloody smears on the wood tiling, the upturned furniture, the glassy smiles in family photos. "But I think we all need to get the hell out of this place for a while."

Barry nodded stiffly. Truth be told, he had been so invested in his work that he didn't notice when Joe and the other investigators left.

He moved to pack up his things when Singh grabbed his arm. "Listen, All—Barry." He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand awkwardly. "I'm sorry for being so harsh on you earlier. In the car. But as you've realized, I take my job seriously and for good reason. When things like this happen," he waved his hand around the crime scene, "oftentimes we're the only way a family member or survivor can get some sort of closure. And with how crazy things can get, some reason can go a long way."

Singh paused. "You've done a good job today, Barry. Joe was right about you."

Barry gave him a small smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "I-I just can't stop thinking about the boy," he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "He—Billy Jr. must be going through a lot right now, losing both of his parents." _I would know_ , he thought.

Singh nodded, pursing his lips in concentration. "Tell you what," he said finally, clasping his hands together. "We still have the boy at the station. Tomorrow after some questioning, we'll let you spend some time with him. This was Joe's suggestion, actually. He figured you would be able to get through to him best. If that's okay with you?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure, I'd be happy to help out however I can. He needs someone." Barry checked his watch. "In fact, I can get there right now if I pack up fast enough—"

Singh stopped him, grabbing his shoulders. " _Tomorrow_ , Barry." He clapped his back. "For now, get some rest, you deserve it. Remember," he added, walking past Barry towards the door, "we're doing as much as we can for the little guy."

Barry allowed his gaze to wander over a picture in the living room. Little Billy smiling cheekily between his parents, each of them with a hand on one of his shoulders. With his dark hair and bright eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to Barry when he was around the same age.

"I wish I could do more," he whispered.

* * *

 **Flashpoint Timeline, 2016.**

A bright, yellow streak was making its way through the bustling Central City sidewalk. The city-goers were generally unaware of its presence, except when a strong wind inexplicably knocked them backwards.

Barry Allen was about to be painfully, painfully late for work _again_ , and the only thought that was on his mind was: _Joe is going to_ kill _me._ He wasn't the fondest of him, after all.

"My name is Barry Allen. I've defeated countless metahumans—" He skipped around a group of teetering schoolchildren on a field trip—"went back in time, saved my mother, changed the course of the universe, got both my parents back plus the love of my life—" A car braked in front of him, forcing the speedster to hop over the vehicle—"but for the life of me, I can _not_ get to work on time!" He whizzed past a C.C. Jitters, flipping cups and hair.

"Not _again_!" yelped one of the customers. She shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand it: everyday, at precisely 8:10 AM, something causes _this_ to happen." She pointed down at the mess on her feet. "I swear, I must be cursed or something!"

"Chill, Iris, _Jesus_ ," someone said. "You'd think you'd get used to it by now."

Barry probably would have been amused if he knew what had happened, but he was too busy rushing up the stairs of the CCPD.

He sprang back into view in front of the department's office, hair tousled and slightly breathless. He wasn't too late, so hopefully he could sneak up to his office and act like he'd been on time—

"Late again, Mr. Allen."

Barry recoiled at the voice. He turned to face it, an excuse already springing to his lips. "Detective West, I can explain there was a—"

"Lemme guess," Detective Joe West interrupted, stopping Barry with a raised hand. "Kitten stuck in a burning tree on First Street? Found the way to Narnia in your toilet?" he guessed, words dripping in sarcasm.

Barry narrowed his eyes. "If you'd just let me _explain_ , Joe—"

"Don't call me Joe. Friends can call me Joe. My daughter can call me Joe, Singh can call me Joe. You and I happen to live and breathe and work in the same building. We are not friends, and you sure as hell are not any relation of mine. We are coworkers, nothing more." He cocked his head. "Though the way I see it, you're becoming more of a liability every day you're late." Joe lowered his voice. "Keep it up and Singh might have to do something about this."

Furious, Barry opened his mouth with a retort he would probably regret. "You—"

For better or for worse, the sound of every single police radio in the building going off filled the air, drowning out whatever Barry was about to say. Officers and detectives were spurred into action, taking notes and yelling into their radios, trying to make sense of the situation. Obviously something big had just went down.

Somehow, Singh's familiar roar was audible over the chaos. "EVERYBODY! SHUT. YOUR. _DAMN. MOUTHS_!"

Everyone froze, mid-action. One officer was in the process of taking the cap off his pen with his mouth. It would have been funny if the circumstances hadn't been so dire.

Joe shot Barry a look that clearly said _this isn't over_ before they both sprinted into the room.

Singh was pacing at the front of the room, a look of intense concentration on his face. Not for the first time, Barry admired the way the captain was able to pull himself together. "For those who were unaware or late," at this Joe's eyes shifted towards Barry, who bit back a nasty reply, "we have a 10-32 going down at Veteran's Park. At this point, we are unclear on how many gunmen are present."

Joe raised a hand. "Singh, any report on casualties?"

The captain closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "There was a concert scheduled for the park at this time," he confessed. "It's too early for an exact number, but… we are certain there are casualties."

The room was quiet.

Everything about the situation was surreal. Nobody could quite believe that this was happening.

Thankfully, Singh could. He snapped himself back into business mode. "Officers on the scene have requested allunits. Everyone, get your asses to Veteran's Park. Officers Spivot and Johnson are already in position, they will relay details over the radio regarding formation and gunmen whereabouts." He glared at them all. "Lives are on the line, get over there, _now!_ "

Everyone bustled into action, loading guns, grabbing ammo, throwing on Kevlar. Everyone that is, except for Barry. To be fair, he was formulating a plan to sneak out and grab the shooter on his own—as the Flash. With all the commotion, nobody noticed the young CSI slink along the wall.

But Singh noticed. He strode over to the young man. "All units means _all units_ , Allen. You're coming, too."

Barry felt his knees almost give out. " _Me?_ "

"Yes, Allen, you." Singh thrust a pistol into Barry's hands. "You know how to use one of these, right?"

"Yeah, just… point and shoot, right?" Barry said weakly. The rubber grip felt wrong in his fingers, its weight too heavy.

"Atta' boy." Singh pulled his car keys out of his pocket. "C'mon kid, you're with me."

"M-me? Why am I with you?"

"You're my best CSI," Singh chuckled darkly. "You're not dying on my watch."

* * *

"Are you _sure_ this was the best idea, sir?!"

"I'm the damn captain, I give out the orders! Now shut up and let me drive, Allen!"

Barry gripped his chair with both hands as Singh braked the cruiser, going from sixty to zero at an alarming rate. Barry was flung forward, his pistol falling out of his lap as he gasped for air. Singh was already in motion, opening his car door for cover, gun out and ready. "Let's move it, Allen!" he barked.

Blinking blearily, Barry managed to detach himself from the car. Not for the first time, he wished he could unleash his speed. He could feel the power surging through his veins, the desire to bring whoever was responsible to justice.

But he couldn't. Not under Singh's watchful eye. He'd risk exposing the truth, what he'd done, what he'd become. Of course if the rumored other Flash decided to show up, his life would be a hell of a lot easier.

Clambering out of the passenger side, Barry was finally able to take stock of the situation outside.

To call the park a battlezone would not have been an understatement. As far as the eye could see were police cars arranged in a rough semicircle around the park, with Singh and Barry's car at the very top-left corner of the shape, nearest to the park's stage. The normally festive park grounds were strewn with streamers and food items—and more sinisterly, dark, unmoving shapes. Too many of them.

Barry felt bile rising in his throat. He coughed, spraying the side of Singh's car.

Singh glanced over. "Dammit Allen, now is not the time to lose your shit!" But he was pale, the palest Barry had ever seen him, and it took all of Barry's willpower to not imagine him as a corpse.

The captain was furiously snarling into his radio. "Do we have a position of the gunman?" His grip on his gun was trembling. "What do you _mean_ you lost track of him, dammit! You got us all here with nowhere to go?!"

Next to Barry, another police cruised screeched into to a halt. Joe climbed out of the driver's seat, face grim. "Any news?"

Singh shook his head. "None here. They don't seem to have goddamn clue where he is."

"So only one?"

"Just one."

Joe thumbed the safety his handgun, crouching into position. "Just our luck."

Singh snorted. "Well—" Whatever that was on his mind was interrupted by the crackling of his radio. "Yeah, report?" Barry could only hear snatches of the conversation, a garble of words and static. "You sure?" Singh said skeptically. His face darkened at whatever the officer said next.

Joe wasn't enjoying being kept out of the loop. "What's the issue, Singh?"

"We got a tip telling us that the suspect is supposedly hiding in the stage."

The two men continued their discussion, brainstorming tactics, but Barry froze. Singh's car was the closest to the stage. _Was_. Now Joe's car was closest. And with Joe being on the driver's side, he was leaving his flank open to the gunman…

As he looked over at the stage in question, he saw a dark figure in motion, hidden from view from the other cruisers. Time slowed down. From his vantage point, he watched as the gunman raised a long, long rifle up in his hands, aiming it…

Aiming it at Joe.

Barry sprung into motion. Forgetting about the consequences, he tapped into the Speedforce, zipping around his car to get to Joe. Distantly he heard a muffled _crack_ , which he knew instinctively was the recoil of a military-grade rifle—most likely an AR-15. Pretty useless information for the moment.

He tackled Joe to the ground, sending them both sprawling into the dust. Above them, a bullet slammed into the car where Joe's head had been only a second before.

Barry rolled off Joe onto his elbows, wheezing from the dirt he inhaled. Joe stared at him, dumbfounded. "How did you—"

A yellow streak whizzed past them, sending more dust and dirt into the air and Barry's lungs. "'Bout damn _time_ ," he gagged, eyes watering.

The Flash zipped back to the front of Singh's police cruiser, the unconscious gunman in his arms. " _Here's your guy, Captain_ ," the Flash said, his vibrating vocal cords distorting his speech. He dumped the man unceremoniously onto the hood, lip curling in disgust.

Barry noticed several things at this moment. His heart stopped.

One, that the Flash was wearing some sort of yellow costume, in contrast to the red suit Barry was so fond of. That was more of a cosmetic problem. But more importantly, Barry could recognize the person from the shape of his jaw, the brown eyes that shone beneath the mask.

The Flash, _this_ Flash at least, was Wally West.

But the universe wasn't done with Barry yet.

They were all getting their first clear look at the gunman, this murderer. Barry was surprised at how young the gunman was. He couldn't have been more than twenty, peach fuzz and short stubble lightly dotting his cheeks.

Then the Fla-Wally shifted him where he lay, exposing his face to the world.

Barry's mouth dropped open.

He couldn't comprehend what was happening.

Dark hair. Slightly more angular face that had been matured over the years, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

Billy Hyde, Junior.


	2. Miss Friday

**Apologies guys, I had no idea that my page breaks had disappeared. I've fixed them now, so hopefully the story makes more sense now!**

 **Chapter 2: Miss Friday**

 _Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind._

 **Pre-Flashpoint Timeline.**

"Go away, Iris."

"No."

"I just want to take a nap, Iris. On my favorite couch. Is that too much to ask for?"

"Not until you tell me about your first day."

Barry groaned from where he had collapsed onto the living room couch. "Aw, c'mon Iris! I _just_ got back, can't I get a break?" He stuck out his lower lip at his best friend.

It was a cute face, but Iris wasn't about to cut Barry some slack because he was only _tired_. "Ah, but my dear Sherlock," she declared, her voice in a (poor) English accent, "how else will your dear friend West-son learn of your grand adventures as the great detective?"

Barry snorted. "I told you. I'm just a CSI, not a detective, so—"

Iris sat herself on his back none too gently, making his breath _whoosh_ out like a whoopee cushion. "I'm not getting up until you tell me," and from the devious glint in her eyes, Barry knew she meant it.

Gasping for air, Barry glared at her with disdain. "Fine," he wheezed.

Iris perked. "About time! So," she crossed her legs and leaned forward, "how was it?"

Barry managed to pump out a few more words from his crushed lungs. "I already told you."

"What?"

"Fine. It was fine."

Iris rolled her eyes. "You're the worst." She swatted his head lightly. "Is it too much for your BFF to be excited for your first day in the real world?"

"Oh, lay off him, Iris," Joe called out, having just come back home. He cast an amused glance at the scene on the couch. "We really need to get you a boyfriend so you can quit harassing poor ol' Barry." He mulled over this thought, hanging up his coat.

"Eh, maybe." Iris laughed, giving Barry's hair another tousle. "But I think he likes it!"

Barry was glad his face was stuffed in the couch cushion. He blushed.

But of course he couldn't admit that out loud. "Joe, I think I'm dying," he rasped.

He heard Joe chuckle, and then he must have given Iris some sort of withering look that guilted her into getting up.

"Let Barry rest, Iris. He's had a long day."

Iris shot Barry a look that said _this isn't over_ before obliging and going upstairs. Grateful, Barry closed his eyes and felt himself beginning to drift off. He felt Joe spread a blanket over him as everything faded away…

* * *

As the lazy Monday sun drifted down and the shadows grew longer, a lone figure slouched against the porch steps of a suburb house, fumbling with something in his hand. Another person emerged from the doorway of the still home.

"Barry?"

The man in question started, almost dropping whatever was in his grip. "Iris, hey! What's up? Is something wrong?" He knew he sounded too casual. Iris knew him too well to be fooled.

She smiled softly at him. "I could've asked you the same." She padded her way down the steps, cat-like, until they were level, sitting down next him. She was wearing a new perfume, Barry noticed. Something flowery and sweet.

For a while neither of them spoke, the only sound being the singing of far-off birds and the occasional passing car. Both of them stared off into the horizon, lost in their respective thoughts.

"It's so easy to forget how beautiful the world is, isn't it?" she said finally, gaze still fixated on the sky.

Barry shifted to look at her. The dying sun cast a fiery glow over her, catching his breath away with how it made her seem more… _alive_. She deserved to be an angel with the way she looked right now, and he could hear the pounding of his heart echo throughout his body.

Barry realized that she was looking back at him with a raised eyebrow, and remembered way too late that she had asked him a question. "Um, yeah. Amazing," he replied lamely.

Iris motioned her head towards his hand, still grasping the object. "Whatcha got there?"

"A rock." He opened his hand to reveal the aforementioned flat grey rock, about the half the size of his palm, edges smooth to the touch. It was also totally unimpressive in every way possible. _Story of my life_. Barry sighed, running a thumb over its glossy surface. If Iris was judging him for this latest display of stupidity, she was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

He needed an explanation quick, before he lost the rest of his dignity. "A week before that, um, night went down, my parents took me on vacation to a lake. We got this stupid little cabin that smelled terrible and had at least a million bugs running around. But Dad kept saying that everything we'd be fine and that he finally had a chance to use his Boy Scout skills. He _never_ shut up about that, now that I think about it." Barry chuckled at the memory. Iris leaned back on the step, looking every part the journalist investigating her next case.

"Anyway, they tried to teach me a bunch of stuff. They tried fishing—I hated that. Kayaking—hated that, too, I kept falling in. The only thing I liked was when Mom taught me how to skip stones. I think even then, little me was excited by the physics of how it worked—"

"—typical of little Barry—"

"—yeah okay, I was always destined to be a nerd," Barry laughed. "Sue me, why don't ya?" His voice quickly become somber as he recalled the rest of the memory. "My mom saw how much I liked it, so on the last day we were there she picked out this rock for me off the shore." He raised the stone up in his hand, holding it up to the light. "Said that this was the best skipping rock she could find, and that I should save it. For the next time we went there. She told me I'd know when to use it." To his utter embarrassment, he felt his voice crack.

"I don't know why I kept this damn thing, it's just a stupid rock but—" Barry swallowed and pushed it into his pocket, cursing the tears that sprung up. He brushed them away with the back of his hand, clumsily getting to his feet. "I'm sorry Iris, I'm just wasting your time—"

"Barry." Iris reached and grabbed his hand. With a surprising amount of force, she yanked him back down. "First of all, that rock is not stupid. It's probably one of the sweetest things I've ever heard. And secondly—that's not the real reason you're this upset." She gave him a knowing look. She was still holding his hand.

Barry smiled ruefully. "You never stop, do you? My dear old Doctor West-son?"

She grinned back, teeth bright. "Do you even know me, my dear Sherlock?"

"You know all this information is confidential, right? I really shouldn't be telling you."

Iris pouted, and Barry knew he was going to lose this battle. "But my dear old Sherlock—"

"Alright, alright, just quit it with the Sherlock crap!"

She squeezed his hand. "It's a deal."

He cleared his throat, thinking hard to how this whole mess of a day even began. "Well, how it started was…"

"I'd like to hear the end of this story while we're alive, Barry."

He bumped her with his shoulder. "Fine. It began like this: I was about to be painfully, _painfully_ late for my first day—"

"—typical of Barry—"

Barry just shook his head, laughing. Sure, he was hopelessly in love with the woman who saw him as nothing more than a brother. But honestly?

He couldn't have asked for a better best friend.

* * *

 **Flashpoint Timeline.**

"Iris? Y-you shouldn't be here."

"Barry, you haven't answered any of my texts, and your mom said that you were ignoring her, too. We were all worried. But I can leave if you want me to."

"No!" Barry jumped off his apartment couch and stepped towards her, grabbing her hand. "I'm sorry, Iris. I was at the scene all day today and it just—" He hung his head, unable to get past the lump in his throat.

"It's okay, Barry. It's just that we knew you were there when that guy was and thought…"

Choking back a sob, she wrapped her arms around him, letting him bury his head into the crook of her neck. Barry clenched his eyes shut, trying in vain to block out the images of crumpled bodies on the pavement and red smears on the grass. It twisted him inside, those sheet-covered monuments. Wrung out his emotions until there was nothing left but numbness.

They stood like that for ages, a sculpture of despair.

Iris broke the silence first. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, hiccupping.

Barry opened his mouth to respond but someone else beat him to the punch.

"I would be careful with what you say, Mr. Allen. A lot of that information is confidential."

That voice.

Oh god.

 _Joe_.

Barry and Iris snapped apart, both of them flushed and gaping. Joe's eyes gleamed with a menace that put every metahuman Barry had ever faced to shame. His frame seemed to fill up the entirety of Barry's meager apartment.

Joe marched forward, feet silent and black coat sweeping across the floor. "And I would be careful with what you do around my daughter, Mr. Allen." He stopped when they were face-to-face, only a few inches separating their noses. "I would ask how you know her, but I think what I saw here was enough."

Barry was sweating profusely in his shirt, but he somehow managed to meet Joe's gaze. _God, this is worse than Zoom_ and _the Reverse Flash combined_ , he thought frantically.

Joe's right eye twitched. Barry resisted the urge to scratch his nose; Joe's heavy breathing was tickling him.

Iris tried to intervene, in vain. "Dad, I can explain—"

"That being said, this wasn't the reason I came to see you." To Barry's amazement, Joe ducked his head, looking almost sheepish. "I actually wanted to thank you."

Barry just stared at him. He was still under the impression that Joe was going to snap him in half.

"For saving my life," Joe clarified. He held out a hand between them. "We started off on the wrong foot and we may not agree on everything. But I'll be damned if I mistreat a man that would've taken a bullet for me."

The young man laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Mr. West, please. You don't need to thank me, I think anyone would've done the same in my position—"

"Allen?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Learn to take a victory." Joe's face was a mixture of amusement and irritation. "Shake my damn hand, boy."

Barry did. It was like poking a sleeping bear.

This entire time Iris had remained silent, her eyebrows at her hairline. "Wait, we need to back up," she demanded, finding her voice. "Barry saved your _life_?"

Joe directed his gaze at his daughter. "I did tell you to get a boyfriend, didn't I? Personally I preferred the Eddie guy, but—" He gave Barry a once-over. "Eh, he'll do." A corner of Barry's mouth shot up, mildly offended but mostly relieved.

"That didn't answer my question, Dad."

"Not now, Iris." He studied Iris carefully, noting how she naturally gravitated towards the boy, how he looked at her when she wasn't. "Does he make you happy?" he asked suddenly.

If Iris was startled by the question, she recovered well. "Yes," said, intertwining her fingers with his. "He's different, Dad. I can't help but be happy around him."

Despite everything, despite all the carnage he'd witnessed in the past few hours—Barry somehow found a way to smile.

Joe exhaled heavily. "Normally I would grill you a bit further." He seemed to age a decade, rubbing his wrinkled forehead. "But I think today of all days has shown us that life's too short to waste on petty fights. If you make her happy, then that's all I could hope for." He moved towards the apartment doorway, stopping when he reached the door itself. "But if you hurt her, I _will_ go Liam Neeson on you."

"And Iris," Joe shifted so that they could see part of his face, "I know you're a journalist at heart, but I would hold off on the questioning."

"He's had a long day." Joe's voice cracked. "We all have."

* * *

" _Barry?_ "

"Hm?" Barry jerked and faced his mother at the dinner table. "You need something?"

"You've been staring at the wall for about ten minutes now."

"I have?"

"And unless you're fast, I don't think you've eaten a single thing," his father chimed in.

"Huh." Barry looked down at his plate and sure enough, the fish was in pristine condition. "Guess I'm not that hungry," he mumbled.

Iris gave him a sympathetic shrug. Neither of them had wanted to have dinner with his parents but they had agreed to it a week in advance, and Iris didn't have the heart to turn his mother down.

It was like a heavy fog had settled in the room, dulling their senses. Their motions lethargic, purposeless. The color _grey_ embodied.

Sensing that Barry was past conversation, his mother began asking Iris about her recent work, hobbies, blah blah blah. Barry poked at a string bean with his fork, watching the fibers fold beneath the metal prongs.

"I've always wanted to learn how to fish," he heard Iris said wistfully. "Joe was about as bad as they come, so there was no learning from him." She chuckled. "He fell in the water quite a few times."

Mrs. Allen laughed. "Oh, Barry did that too, didn't you dear?" She smiled fondly at her son. "He hated that dingy little cabin more than anything in the world."

"I thought it was homely," Mr. Allen butt in. "Nothing like some outdoor adventures to put a few hairs on your chest, eh?" He cocked an eyebrow and straightened in his chair, puffing out his frame.

Mrs. Allen rolled her eyes. "Barry, to his father's dismay, was more into skipping stones than chopping down firewood. I think that's when we knew we had a little scientist on our hands."

"Really?" Iris sat forward, intrigued. "That's an interesting way to jumpstart a passion."

"Pretty good at it, too!" As if skipping stones was something to be proud of. Barry couldn't help but feel a tinge of annoyance at how flippant they were. He stabbed through the poor string bean.

"He even kept this perfect little stone I picked out for him."

His father grunted. "You would've thought Christmas came early. He was obsessed with that thing."

"Of course we never got to go back to the cabin, so he never had the perfect moment for it. They tore down the place, didn't they, Henry?" She looked at him confirmation.

"Yeah, the owner thought that it was haunted, if you would believe that."

"Stranger things have happened." She watched her son sift through the food on his plate. "Barry?"

He dropped his fork, clattering it against his plate. "Yeah?"

If she was concerned about his mental state, she was doing a damn good job of not vocalizing it. "What happened to the stone I gave you?"

Barry frowned. "Stoned? Or stone?"

" _Stone_ , the skipping stone from that one vacation?"

"Oh, it's—" He bit his lip, thinking. He used to always have it with him, but nowadays it had completely slipped his mind. The last time he remembered having it was… in the other timeline. He left it there.

"I must've lost it," he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

His mother sighed. "That's a shame." She looked hurt.

Mr. Allen laughed goodheartedly at the disappointed expression on his wife's face. "What did you expect? Our boy's got a nasty habit of losing things."

Ouch, that one cut deep.

Barry stood up abruptly, rattling the table. "S-Sorry," he stammered, "I just need some air." He left, resisting the urge to quicken his pace.

Barry's parents watched their son depart with defeated looks in their eyes. Mr. Allen cleared his throat. "Well," he began, setting his napkin down. "I guess I'll go fetch him—"

"Mr. Allen—" Iris laid her hand on the older man's forearm. "Please. I'll talk to him."

Henry studied her for a moment. "Okay. Alright." He sat down heavily. "Be careful though, dear. Barry is… delicate."

Iris didn't hear him. She was already out of the room.

* * *

It was already being heralded as the worst crime ever to occur in Central City. A massacre, they called it. Senseless.

Correspondents from across the nation swarmed to the scene with notepads and microphones glued to hands, camera crews doggedly following their lead. All networks seemed to have the same theme: We have no idea, facts, or anything truthful to report, but we will speculate and conjecture until hell freezes over. Politicians tweeted and jumped in front of cameras, calling for stricter laws, relaxed laws, everything but the in-between.

It hadn't even been twenty-four hours and already their deaths were being used as political leverage, to reel in viewership and ratings.

But this was how it worked, wasn't it? Rinse and repeat.

Barry couldn't understand how everyone could be so damn superficial. He loved his parents, bless them—but how could they talk such trivial things in the aftermath of something like this? Was it desensitization? Was it complacency? Was it the guilty relief that none of the victims were their one of their loved ones?

Or was he just missing something?

Frankly, Barry didn't know what to believe in anymore.

He had come into this world with high expectations, and was greeted with the perfect scenario. Both his parents were alive, he and Iris were in a healthy relationship, and there was another Flash zipping around to take up his mantle. Sure things with Joe weren't exactly rosy, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to take.

But now, he didn't know if he had done the right thing.

From what he could remember in his other life, Billy Jr. was just about to begin college when Barry changed the timeline. They had kept in touch only fleetingly after Barry had encountered his case so many years ago, chance meetings in coffee shops and the occasional email.

In that world, Billy Jr. was going to major in criminology. A man intent on restoring his family name.

In this world, Billy Jr. was a murderer. A psychopath who had just tarnished his family forever.

Barry groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Where had things gone wrong?

A hand, lithe and slender, brushed against his shoulder. "Hey," whispered Iris.

Barry shifted so he could look at her from where he sat. "Hey."

Iris sat next to him, folding her legs underneath her body, her hand on his leg, her shoulder pressed up against his. "Interesting spot you picked," she quipped. They were sitting on the side of the road in front of his house.

Barry let her words float into the stagnant air. He was the eye of an inverse hurricane: the tumultuous pounding of the what-ifs and the would-bes of his mind in stark contrast to a blank reality that encircled him.

Iris recognized the strain on his face and knew better than to speak. Instead, she gently leaned her head on his shoulder, watching the stars.

Everything was still. It felt like the world was watching the events conspire between two with a held breath.

He wanted to tell her about everything, truly. He wanted to scream until his voice was hoarse, his throat raw.

But what could he tell her?

 _Hey Iris, I'm actually another Flash from a different reality. Over there, my mom was murdered when I was younger and my dad was convicted with her death, so I used my powers to go back in time, save her, and change the course of the universe. Oh, and me changing the course of history also may have accidentally caused Billy go crazy and start shooting people._

That would boil over well. So really, he couldn't tell her anything.

Barry inhaled deeply.

He could smell her perfume or lotion—whatever it was. " _Lavender and honey_ ," she had told him when he asked.

It was the same type his other Iris had used, the one he could tell anything and everything.

He felt himself ache for Iris, _that_ Iris. But how can you mourn what you still have?

Iris sensed that he had reached a standstill. "Barry." She didn't wait for him to respond. "I don't expect you to tell me everything." Oh so gently, she reached out and cupped his face in her hands, turning his face towards his. She had tears in her eyes, glistening under the starlight like diamonds. But her voice was strong, as strong as Joe's in the midst of a firefight.

"And you don't need to. I love you, and I trust you. Whatever is bothering you, I know you'll either figure it out on your own or tell me when you're ready to." She drew in a shaky breath, and Barry fell in love with her even more.

"Just… promise me. That at some point you'll let me in."

Barry knew in his heart that he couldn't. She wouldn't believe him, and if she did she would hate him.

But she was peering at him with so much emotion. _You must have some sort of idea_ , he thought. _That I'm not the man you think I am_. He knew that the Barry in her mind would never lie to her.

His lips betrayed him. "I promise."

She kissed him then, but everything about it felt wrong.


	3. 3 Rounds and a Sound

**Chapter 3: 3 Rounds and a Sound**

 _I feel like the word "shatter."_

 **Pre-Flashpoint Timeline.**

"So this is him, right? Billy Jr.?"

"More or less."

"Eh, less. He's a lot smaller than I expected him to be."

"You know, that wasn't a question." Joe judged him over the rims of his glasses. "He's about the same size you were when you were his age." He snickered. "In fact, you were probably even smaller."

Barry was miffed. "I'll have you know, I was a late bloomer. Mother Nature just forgot about my growth spurt for a few years."

"Yeah and she forgot to get rid of your chicken legs, too."

The younger man flushed beet-red and spluttered. " _Forreal?_ C'mon—"

Joe burst out into laughter and clapped his surrogate son on the shoulder. "I'm just playin', Barry. One day, you'll find a woman who loves KFC as much as she loves you."

Mortified, Barry just shook his head. "Not cool Joe, not cool at all," he griped. "Can you please just hurry up and tell me what to do?"

Joe cocked an eyebrow. "Patience, young grasshopper." He ruffled the papers in his hand, clearing his throat and becoming serious once more. "So, Billy's just been questioned by other authorities over what happened that night. But they have a problem: he's in denial. He doesn't want to admit it happened."

Barry sidled over to the window of the interrogation room Billy was in. It felt wrong putting just a kid in there, but they had nowhere else private enough for questioning. The officers had pitied the poor boy, showering him with candy and other goodies. For now, Billy sat in the crude wooden chair, twiddling his thumbs.

"We offered to give him a different place to stay in," Joe told him, "but the kid refused." He sighed, scratching his beard. "I think he just wants to be left alone…" Joe's thoughts wandered off as he remembered another boy many years ago who just wanted to be left alone, too.

"Yoo-hoo, Joe. Come back to us."

"Sorry, Barry." He pushed his glasses back. "We're under the impression that the boy's having trouble understanding what happened, hence why he can't tap into those memories. Since you've… been in a similar situation, we were hoping that you could maybe talk to him. Draw him out of his shell. Let him know that things get better."

"And you're not getting someone who's trained to do this like, say, a psychiatrist because why…?"

"Even police departments have a budget," Joe admitted sheepishly.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Look, just give it a shot. You've got a way of getting people to open up." Joe shrugged. "If it doesn't work, don't worry about it too much. We'll figure out another way."

Barry sighed, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt. "Okay," he relented, "I'll see what I can do." He moved to the room's door.

"Just remember something, Barry," Joe called out. "You grew up into a man that any parent would be proud of." He smiled. "Chicken legs and all."

* * *

Whenever he was upset, Billy's mother would smooth down the hair on his forehead. " _Count to nine, clear your mind. Count to nine, you'll be fine,_ " she would hum, wiping away his tears and flattening his frowns. " _Now tell me, sweetie: why are you so angry_?"

He had so much he wanted to tell her now.

The word "dead" is so aptly named. So short, so sudden, a flip of the tongue. Say it and you could be it. Billy also couldn't understand it. Or rather, he didn't want to believe in it. He didn't want to believe that his mother was actually that _word_. She was in a better place, but she'd come back soon.

When Barry opened the door to his room, Billy perked up, thinking for a moment it was his mother coming back. To tell him there was a terrible mistake that had been made, and that she was sorry she had to leave but she was back. And everything would be better.

The distraught on his face when he discovered otherwise made Barry seriously rethink what he was doing.

Barry cleared his throat. "Hi Billy. My name is Barry." The idea of putting his hand out sprung up and was quickly shunted aside. _Socially inept as usual, check_.

"Hi Barry, how are you," Billy responded in a monotone, zombie-like.

"Um, I'm fine. I guess." Frowning, he slid into the seat across from Billy, pressing his elbows into the table. "Listen—"

"That's good to hear, Barry. Can I go home now?" Billy jolted the table, raising himself from the seat.

Alarmed, Barry held out a hand. "Whoa there. Hold on buddy, I need to talk to you."

Billy sighed but made no move to sit back down. "I've already talked to a million people today. They keep asking me the same questions."

"We'll talk about different stuff then." Barry shrugged. "About whatever you want. I'm here to listen to what you have to say."

The young boy gave him a suspicious look. With his pale countenance, short dark hair, and sad, narrow face, he was the spitting image of a younger Barry. "What's there to talk about?" he muttered finally.

 _Welp, this is going swimmingly_. Barry had no idea what he was doing.

"Maybe you could ask the questions instead?" he blurted out, before he could fully comprehend if that was a good idea. He could almost see Joe facepalming behind the one-way glass.

To his surprised, though, Billy seemed to be at least receptive to the suggestion. Happy to have the attention directed away from him, the boy shrugged. "Sure. Why not." He picked at something on his finger. "So… are you an officer, too?"

Barry chuckled, imagining Joe doing the same. "Nah, I couldn't be an officer. I'm a CSI."

"What's that?"

Barry leaned back in his chair. "It stands for 'crime scene investigator.' It's pretty cool actually—I get to go to places where crimes are committed and look for clues about why and how it happened. Sometimes I get to take back the clues to my lab and run tests on them to find other clues. It's like a giant puzzle, basically." He pursed his lips. "Well, it's supposed to be. I just started, so I really haven't done much." He noticed the blank look on the boy's face. "Um, did you get any of that?"

"I think so." Billy frowned. "So… basically you're like Sherlock Holmes?"

Barry cringed. "I mean, not really. Sherlock is actually a detective and I'm technically—" Billy's expression became even more confused and Barry sighed, defeated. "Yeah. I'm like Sherlock." _Please let Iris not hear about this_.

Billy sat forward in his chair, a spark appearing in his eyes. "Do you have a partner that helps you with everything? Like Dr. Watson?"

"Not really. So far nobody's really helped me out with anything. I'm kind of on my own here, which is okay."

"Why do they not help you?" The boy frowned. "Do they not like you?"

"They like me! Except for Singh—he's the captain here. He's kind of a di—jerk."

Billy nodded emphatically. "He was the first person I met here. He's pretty mean."

Barry's phone buzzed and he glanced down at the screen.

 _Singh is here and heard that. He's not amused. – Joe_

He paled. "Hey, let's talk about something else! Ask me a different question."

"Okay." Billy unwrapped a Jolly Rancher and popped it into his mouth. "Do you like what you do?"

"Yeah, I guess." Barry paused thoughtfully. "To be honest, I've always wanted to become a CSI, so it's like a dream come true."

"Why?"

"Well…" Barry shifted uncomfortably. "When I was around your age, my mom was murdered." Billy made a sound of surprise. "My dad was accused of killing her and got arrested and everything. But I know that's not true and that he didn't do it. I became a CSI so I could clear his name. People tell me all the time that it's a long shot—and maybe it is—but it's the only hope I have of ever setting him free."

Billy had remained silent the entire time. Once Barry finished his explanation, though, he dropped his head into his palms. "I know what happened that night," he murmured, so soft that Barry had to strain to hear him. "But I don't want to say it out loud." His lower lip trembled and he refused to meet Barry's eyes. "Because… because—"

"Because it makes it real." Barry could practically feel the old wounds inside him reopening again, the sleepless nights and raw agony. He reached out and grasped the kid's shoulder with a firm hand.

"Hey, listen." Billy raised his head, Barry's stern voice giving him some focus. "You're _not_ going to go through this alone. I didn't have to, and I'm not going to let you either. We're here for you. _I'm_ here for you." He gave him a little shake for emphasis. "But you're going to have to let someone in. Otherwise, all those angry and sad thoughts? They start to take over." He thought of Joe and Iris, how they had somehow managed to seep through his impenetrable shell all those years ago. _I was so lucky_ , he mused.

Blinking back the rise of emotion, he let go of Billy's thin shoulder. "Can you do that for me?" He held out his hand to the boy, feeling the indecision roiling off the little guy in waves. He was asking for a lot from him—frankly, he wouldn't have been stunned if Billy chose not to trust him.

But after a moment of hesitation, Billy took Barry's hand. It was quivering and cold compared to Barry's.

"Thank you," Billy whispered.

* * *

"Barry, that was amazin—huh?"

Joe's eyes widened in surprise as Barry grabbed him into a bear hug. After the initial shock he reciprocated. He patted Barry on the head. "You okay?" he asked gently.

"Yeah." Barry pulled back. "I just—" His voice broke and he shook his head. "Thank you. For everything. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have you."

Joe grinned hugely. "I could say the same to you, too."

* * *

 **Flashpoint Timeline.**

"So this is him, right? Billy Jr.?"

"More or less."

"Huh." Barry ran his eyes over the hunched figure in the interrogation room. A mane of greasy, unkempt dark hair fell to his shoulders, adolescent stubble peppering his cheeks. He racked his brain. How old was he now: eighteen? "Less. He's young," he commented to Joe, who was scribbling notes on a clipboard.

Joe didn't look up. "Age is just a number. This guy is evil down to the _bones_." He made a sound of disgust in his throat. "Kills a dozen people in cold blood and just sits there and _laughs_."

Singh chose that moment to storm into view. It may have been Barry's imagination, but the captain looked even _more_ on edge than ever. He carried a pen and notebook in a white-knuckled grip, dark shadows under his eyes. "Status, Joe?" he barked, throat raspy.

"Nothing, Singh. He's rebuffed every attempt we've had to get a motive."

There was a _snap_ and an explosion of black. Barry yelped in surprise.

Singh had broken the pen in his hand clean in half. He didn't care, not even when it dripped onto his crumpled pants. "We need answers, _dammit_ , and we needed them five hours ago!"

Joe gulped; he'd never seen his boss so unhinged before.

He whirled on Joe, spittle flying: "The media is on my ass, the President called _two hours ago_ , and the victims' families want to know why they just lost their loved ones in the blink of an eye. People are making up random shit to pass the time; do you have any idea how _dangerous_ that is?!"

Although Barry wasn't the closest with Joe, it still was his instinct to come to his aide. "With all due respect, Captain," he forced out as soon as Singh stopped to take a breath, "I think we're all trying our hardest to find the answer here. No need to blame it all on the detective."

In a scene straight out of a horror movie, Singh turned towards Barry, eerily slow.

Barry felt his stomach drop. Singh's eyes were bloodshot and deranged. He was feral. Out for blood. "You." He stabbed a finger into Barry's sternum, hard. "In there." He pointed at the interrogation room with the still-mangled half of his bleeding pen. " _Now_."

Joe gave an alarmed expression. "Singh, think about what you're doing—"

"And don't you dare leave until you have a goddamn answer," he snarled, over Joe's protests. "You wanna talk shit? Actually put in some work and then I might listen." With that, he stomped away.

Joe watched him go, helpless. "It's not your fault, Allen. He just found out that his younger cousin was there… She was one of the victims." He could feel every joint creak from the stress of the last twenty-four hours. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Barry had a sick feeling in his chest, but he couldn't let Singh down. Not when he was pretty sure he was the catalyst for everything. "It's fine. I'll be fine." He made a move towards the door.

Joe grabbed him by the arm. "Allen, I don't think you're ready for this." There was genuine concern for him, and Barry could recognize a hint of the old Joe.

"Relax, Joe." He tried to give him a reassuring look. "I've talked to him before, remember? Back when we first met him."

"Say what?" Joe made a face that said _you crazy, boy_. "No, you didn't."

"I know I did, Joe. I swear! You said he was all clammed up and that you needed to find something he could trust."

"No, we hired a child psychologist for that," Joe said slowly. "You know, someone whose _job_ it is to do stuff like that." The older man crossed his arms. "Are you sure you're alright? I feel like you hit your head on something."

Barry opened and closed his mouth several times, processing the new information. "Um, yeah," he managed to squeak out. "I'm fine."

Joe shrugged. "Alright." He dropped a manila folder into Barry's hands. "This is everything we have on him so far. Misdemeanors, petty charges, past run-ins with police—things like that."

Barry nodded his thanks and then stumbled towards the door, speechless.

He had an idea, a theory that was taking shape in his mind's eye—a reason why things were the way they were.

And it wasn't pretty.

* * *

"Shrink Number 52, can I take your order for you? You can choose between megalomaniac, sociopath, or the typical serial killer. I'll even throw in a dash of a sob-story if you're feeling up for a challenge."

Billy Hyde Jr. straightened in his wooden chair, his chained hands the only obstacle keeping him from strangling the daylights out of his visitor. He strained in them, the metal digging into the soft skin of his wrists.

Barry didn't know what to say. He gawked at the haggard man, but couldn't help remembering the small, vulnerable boy he had talked to so many years ago. "Do you know who I am?"

Billy raised an eyebrow. "Should I?"

"I worked on your case five or six years back." Barry flipped through the file, recognizing his forensic report and a few of the crime scene photos. "Murder-suicide, father shot your mother once in the head before turning it on himself. That sound right?"

The suspect narrowed his eyes. "I don't remember ever seeing you back then." He followed Barry with his head as the CSI sat down across from him. "Who are you?"

Barry laid his hands flat on the table. "I'm here to help you."

"Oh-ho-ho, you've got to be shitting me." Billy tipped his chair backwards in delight, almost falling over. " _Help_ me? That's a new one right there. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Barry remained silent. The other man leaned forward, sneering. "Have you ever known what it's like? To never feel happy again?" He raised his hand as high as the chains would permit, aiming a finger-gun at his temple. "That's me. That's who I am. I'm the Grinch, bitch. If I can't be happy, nobody else can."

"So that's why you killed them? Because they were _happy_? Because they were enjoying their lives on what was supposed to be a normal day?"

Billy regarded him with interest. "You make it seem like I needed a reason. What, a guy can't just go out and murder someone for the hell of it these days?"

Barry was unable to repress his disgust any longer. "You're a monster."

"Oh, really? What gave it away?"

Barry noticed his hand was shaking and hurried to hide it. "I don't believe you. That you didn't need a reason to go and murder all those innocent people."

"Go on, then," Billy taunted, wiggling in his seat with maniacal glee. "Analyze me like one of your French girls."

Barry massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to recall his knowledge of the other Billy. "When you were younger," he began slowly, "your world was shattered. You lost everything you loved, and then some. But apparently you didn't let anyone in, or nobody bothered to crack open your shell. You were so angry, and you just kept that bottled up as you grew older."

This was easier than he thought. All he had to do was imagine life if Joe and Iris hadn't adopted him.

He was on a roll now, the words now a steady stream. "I bet you didn't have very many friends. I bet you never managed to stay with a foster family for longer than a month or two. I bet, one day, you just blew up. You couldn't figure out what to do with your life, so you jumped towards the most extreme option available." Barry folded his arms across his chest. "How close am I?"

Billy wasn't smiling anymore.

He pressed further. "How could you be so disillusioned? So angry?"

"You make this seem like it's all my fault. Like I turned out this way because I _wanted_ to." Billy's voice was nothing more than a deadly whisper. "Y'know, even though I was scared as shit back then, I still thought someone would care about me. Maybe a police officer would make me feel better. Lie to me even, get my hopes up. But apparently nobody cared. Nobody bothered to ask how I was feeling. Not a single goddamn person, including _you_ , Mister. Really though, this is all _your_ fault." Barry felt a cold chill travel up his spine at those words.

"Nobody cared who I was." A sadistic smile crawled onto his lips. "But not anymore. I _made_ them care."

It took all of Barry's willpower to not look away. He felt like throwing up. "Your mother cared for you. What would she think about you now? What you've done?"

Billy actually growled, the sound coming from deep inside his throat. "Fuck you. Go jerk off in a corner and tell me what you find, that's what's left of my humanity." He bared his teeth. "You people are all so pathetic. So weak. Can't you see that caring about other people is what drags you down?"

Barry had enough. He couldn't bear sitting in this room anymore, not with the toxic words dripping out of Billy's mouth.

And no, it most definitely was not the gnawing guilt in his gut.

Barry slammed the manila folder shut and stood to his full height, knocking his chair back a few feet. "You're wrong," he snarled. "That's what makes us strong."

* * *

"Well done, Allen. I didn't think you had it in you." Joe gave him a grudging nod of respect. "Say, how were you able to figure him out so easily?"

Barry waved him off tiredly. "Thanks, Joe. I don't know how I was able to work something out, I was mostly just throwing stuff out and seeing what stuck." He sucked in a breath, massaging his forehead. "Could you go and tell Singh what happened? I think I need a break." He yawned to emphasize his point.

"Sure thing." Perhaps sensing Barry was still troubled, Joe moved to the young man's side. "You've done good, kid." His mouth crinkled into a rare grin. "Those families are gonna be glad you're here. You gave them some closure." He clapped Barry on the shoulder before walking away. "Don't make me eat my words now," he called behind him.

Barry's hand was shaking violently, only a few levels before outright vibration.

His body knew that this was all his fault.

His heart just didn't want to admit it.


	4. The Run and Go

**Chapter 4: The Run and Go**

 _I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep._

 **Pre-Flashpoint Timeline.**

"Iris—y-you're choking me!"

"Nobody said looking good was easy. Seriously, that's the definition of heels."

Barry choked and shot her a loathing look, pawing at the tie stretched against his throat. "Yeah well, nobody ever _died_ to look good either," he retorted, sighing in relief as he felt his breathing return to normal.

Iris rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself." She straightened a stray hair on his crown, flattened out a wrinkle on his dress shirt, then looked him up and down. Barry tried hard not to blush and failed miserably.

"Eh, I guess you pull it off," she said after a minute, beaming.

"Glad I passed your test," he grumbled, checking the time on his watch. He paled. "Dammit, Iris! I'm late!" Panicking, Barry barely avoided knocking over his friend as he snatched his phone from the table. Fifteen seconds later, he was stumbling out the front door, dress shoes in hand.

It had been a week since the Hyde murders, and today was the day of the first press conference. And Iris had _insisted_ that Barry be dressed up. "It's being aired on the news later, you need to look your best!" she had said. "Who knows? Your future girlfriend could be watching!"

"Iris, I'm not even talking," he had protested. "I'm background material! No one notices the backup dancers at a Beyoncé concert."

But of course, Iris had won that round.

And in the process, made him ten—no, fifteen minutes late. "Why the CCPD?" he moaned out loud. "It's so far away…"

Thirty minutes later, a very sweaty and out-of-breath Barry skidded to a stop next to Joe, who looked at him in amusement. "We told you to dress nice, not run a marathon," he whispered from the side of his mouth.

"Blame your daughter," Barry hissed, clutching a stitch in his side. "She decided to play dress-up doll with me."

Joe chortled. "Blame yourself, boy. You put yourself in that position," and Barry knew he was right. He didn't need to admit it, though.

Thankfully, the cameras hadn't noticed his less-than-graceful entrance. Barry wasn't even in-frame. _I hate you, Iris._

They were focused instead on the man at the podium feeding them scraps of details like they were gulls on a beach. Singh looked less than pleased with his duty, and grew even more exasperated with every passing question.

He scanned his eyes over the gathering. There were a surprising number of journalists, considering that the crime had been kept on the down-low since its occurrence. Something about a kid being orphaned must make for a good news story, he supposed.

He squinted. Speaking of kids…

"Wasn't Billy supposed to speak here?" he whispered to Joe. "Or at least be here?"

"He _was_. Apparently told Singh last-second that he didn't want to. Poor kid, he was practically crying."

"Where is he?"

Joe jutted his chin towards the CCPD building behind them. "I think he's hanging out in Singh's office right now. I grabbed him some Big Belly before the conference started."

Barry glanced around. He wouldn't be missed here, not with Singh handling the workload. "Alright," he decided. "I'll go check on him." Stealthily, he tip-toed around Joe and up the stairs… but not before tripping over the microphone cord. There was a deafening screech as Singh's voice distorted and cut out. "Wha—"

Joe facepalmed.

"Oops." Now he was _really_ hoping that his future girlfriend wasn't watching this broadcast, or any girl at all for that matter.

Barry sprinted into the building, hiding his face as the panicked squabbling of the crowd faded with distance.

He slowed to a jog as he neared Singh's office. "Hey, Billy—" The words died as he took in what was in the room. Or rather, what wasn't in the room.

Apart from a half-eaten burger and an untouched carton of fries, the room was empty. The boy had left without a trace.

"Aw, hell," Barry sighed. Was his life ever going to be simple?

He sprinted out from where he came… but not before grabbing the box of fries.

* * *

"Found… you… god _damn_ , I am out of shape." Barry ground his feet to a halt, wincing in pain. Joe had been joking earlier with the marathon quip, but it honestly felt like he had run miles and miles around the town, looking for the boy. _He must be fun during hide-and-seek_.

As it turned out, Billy had opted for the local playground to be his hidey-hole, only a few minutes from Barry's home.

Go figure.

"I should have just stayed at home," he muttered.

The aforementioned Billy Jr. was swaying morosely in a swing, eyes downcast. With his overlarge suit with too-baggy sleeves and droopy collar, he looked like a sad little stock broker who had just lost it all. His feet, too short to sit fully against the mulchy earth, brushed and sifted over the dirt.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Barry stepped forward. "Billy?"

The boy glanced up, confusion dawning on his features. "Barry? What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Barry fumbled with his tie, loosening the devil and throwing it over his shoulder. "I heard you decided not to talk at the press conference."

Billy twisted the chains of the swing with his hand, grating the metal. "Didn't feel like it."

"Ah."

The two of them stewed in silence. Barry felt the sweat drip down his limbs and roll down his back, resisting the urge to fling off his shirt, wondering how long this mental stand-off would last.

Billy gave in first. "I just don't understand why she had to die!" he bawled, with a ferocity that made Barry jump. " _She didn't do anything wrong_. She was the best. She deserved so much better…" he trailed off brokenly. Bits of wood flew as he kicked his toe into the mulch.

Barry arched his neck towards the grey sky, scuffing his feet awkwardly on the ground.

He wished Joe were here. He would know what to say. Or his father, really—both of them always knew the wise words that would make him feel better. But they weren't here, and Barry wasn't a father or wise or anything even remotely close.

But he understood, Barry realized. And that made all the difference.

"Billy," he said, then stopped. "I mean, you and I," he gestured at them both, "are just ordinary people. We can't see the future." He rubbed the back of his head. "You're right: your mom didn't deserve any of this, and you didn't either. But sometimes the universe is just shitty like that. I can't pretend to know how the world works."

"But I do know how _you_ work, Billy." He knelt down in front of the boy so that their eyes were level. "I've been there before, remember? I know what it feels like, when it feels like the whole world is against you."

Billy made a noise in the back of his throat. "It's not just that!" he cut in. "I'm just so angry about everything." His tiny hand clenched into a fist. "I know it's bad… but I wish my dad was still alive so I can tell him how much I hate him." He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together.

Barry ran a hand through his damp hair. "Yeah I felt that way, too. Believe me, I hated everything. I hated my teachers, my classmates, even my dad for a bit. People tried to help me get happier, but I just ended up hating them, too." Barry remembered all the venomous words he spat at Joe with a pang of regret. "But you know that saying, 'An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?'"

Billy nodded.

"It's so true: you can't stay angry. Because if you do, you end up hurting people. And most of the time, you hurt the people that care about you the most."

Billy still was skeptical, unbuttoning and buttoning his jacket with a nimble hand. "Nobody cares about me," he grumbled. "At least, not anymore."

"Well, that's not true now." Barry managed to crack a grin, exhaustion seeping through. " _I_ care about you."

Billy stared at him. "Y-you do?"

"Yeah, man. All this stuff you're feeling right now—" Barry waved his hands around his head—"it's all temporary. It gets better, I promise. I'm not giving up on you just yet."

The boy ducked his head shyly. "Um, thanks," he mumbled, turning red.

"Don't mention it." Barry could have laughed—the boy looked like he had just been asked on his first date. "Say, do you want me to walk you back to the CCPD?"

For the first time since they met, Billy gave him a smile, albeit a tiny one. "No, it's okay." He squinted off into the dark grey sky. "I'm just gonna sit here for a bit, if that's cool."

Barry shrugged. "Suit yourself." He waved good-bye before beginning the short walk home.

He made it to the front door, dragging his feet the last few steps. Drained, he dropped his head onto the wooden door, letting it land with a resounding _thud_.

The door opened immediately.

Barry cocked his head, confused. "Iris?"

She raised a finger, shushing him. "How about this. I won't ask why you are drenched in sweat, dirty, and hitting your head on buildings if you explain _this_." Iris pointed at something inside the house. Curious, Barry stepped past her, following her directions with his scanning eyes. Immediately he felt his stomach drop to his feet. He paled.

"You're evil," he gasped. He whirled on her as she dissolved into giggling fits. "You _recorded_ that?"

On their television set was a looping video of Barry Allen singlehandedly bringing the house down at the press conference, complete with Singh's absolutely befuddled face, Joe's patented facepalm, and Barry's rapid escape.

Barry dragged a hand down his face. He was never going to catch a break, was he?

* * *

 **Flashpoint Timeline.**

"Iris—"

"Don't be difficult, Barry."

"I'm just saying." He held up the piece of fabric in question. "We're not even going to be on camera. I don't think they'll care if I don't wear a tie."

Iris gave him _that look_.

Barry put the tie on.

It had been a week after the shooting in Veteran's Park. The entire city was in a catatonic state in its aftermath. Captain Singh had been asked to speak at the first public assembly regarding the victims. It was only fitting—after all, not only had he poured days into the investigation, but he had also lost a cousin to the rampage.

Barry could sense the tension, the anxiety in the air of the city.

Sure, bad things happened in Central City. And the citizens weren't naïve—they were well-aware of similar incidents all over the world, especially in the nearby Starling City. But the realization that something so barbaric, so _sickening_ could happen in their own backyard shattered the illusion of safety. Already, changes were happening. People began looking at others with distrust, paranoia was rampant. Petty crime had risen dramatically, mostly robberies and misdemeanors.

The CCPD already had their hands full with Billy's case and could hardly handle much more. The entire division had been working non-stop with no reprieve in sight. When an officer actually collapsed from exhaustion, the mayor made sure to give this day off as a courtesy. "In this time of need, the last thing we need is for our police to be passing out during their jobs," he had stated in a televised interview.

Which led to Iris playing dress-up with her Barry. It was a distraction for both of them, an escape from real life. Barry had hardly even complained as Iris threw dress shirts and pants at him.

He flattened his tie with the palm of his hand. Iris tweaked his collar, a faint frown on her lips. "You ready for this?" She wasn't.

"Yeah." He wasn't either.

Nobody was.

* * *

"As I'm sure you can all imagine, this is the last place any of us want to be. Three days ago, the unimaginable happened in our very own Central City.

A single gunman claimed the lives of a dozen innocent people as they were setting out to enjoy a morning performance in Veteran's Park. He was detained by the Flash and the dozens of CCPD officers that arrived quickly on the scene. Paramedics and hospital employees worked endless shifts for the wounded, many of them children. As of now there are still several in serious condition, undergoing extensive surgery as I speak to you.

Those are the facts—and as police captain, my job is to find the facts. To separate reason from emotions.

I'm just a police captain. But today… I want to forget about the facts. There will be a time for finding reason and motive, a time to point fingers and to make accusations. But that day is not today.

Today is a day of remembrance. Of mourning. Of love. Our actions in the coming weeks will define the history of our city.

I am no politician. I don't know the first thing about motivating a crowd—frankly, I don't like talking to them. But I am pleading with you. Central City, do not let this tragedy overcome our heart. But do not become complacent. Do not let your only response be a swift prayer into the wind, or a quick discussion at the watercooler.

Reach out to others with compassion. Give a shoulder to cry on, a thoughtful ear, and then some.

Pain _demands_ to be felt, so let us not take up this burden individually.

I'm just a police captain.

But I am also human. And I know that deep down inside… what we need to conquer this inhumane act is our own humanity."

Thank you, Central City."

Singh's eyes were red and watery. He bowed his head to the tumultuous applause, stepping away from the podium with a heavy air.

Joe and the other officers who had been standing behind Singh clapped him on the back, murmuring words of support. "Couldn't have said it better even if I tried," Joe said lowly.

Singh just closed his eyes, the pain a dull scream. "There wasn't much to say in the first place."

Meanwhile in the crowd, Iris was shaking. It took Barry a moment to realize that she was crying, sobs wracking through her body, face in her hands. Almost mechanically, he placed an arm around her trembling shoulders and drew her close. She clung to him.

All around them, people were in an outbreak of motion: crying, hugging, recording the moment with their smartphones. Someone whipped out a keyboard on the stage and was pounding away a tune, one that Barry didn't recognize. In his grip Iris was telling him something, her voice hiccupping.

But Barry wasn't paying attention to any of this. Instead, he stared off into the clear blue sky, eyes glazed.

Last night he had dreamed of a memory, one from his other life in another timeline. One where he had stood in a desolate playground, telling a little boy named Billy Jr. that he couldn't be angry. That he would only hurt the people closest to him. Everything about it felt real, from the gentle caress of the sun, to the softness of fresh grass, to the sweat that had rippled down his skin.

Because it _was_ real.

Barry couldn't deny it any longer.

Hell, he couldn't even follow his own advice. Becoming the Flash was more than just a title—it made him reckless, made him feel invincible, like he had the _right_ to be selfish.

In his rage, he had changed the timeline, changed who he was. In this world, Billy Jr. would never be his friend. Barry's parents were alive; he would never grasp the pain in that boy's heart. He could never understand Billy Jr., and nobody else would until it was too late.

He felt numb.

Onstage, the pianist crooned out a soulful melody, his voice buoyed by the chorus of the audience.

 _"And if I borrowed love for you_

 _I will pay my debts, I will start anew."_

Barry never claimed to be an expert at reading people and what they wanted. But now it couldn't be clearer, the universe blaring a message at him with a gigantic, neon sign.

Everything he had done was finally catching up him, his sins, his failures.

He was a man standing precariously upon a pillar of salt and secrets. The only way down was to fall.

 _"It's time I travel back to youth_

 _To tell the life that's false from the life that is true."_

* * *

Lavender and honey. It was everywhere, in his eyes, in his hair.

Iris stirred in his arms, murmuring in her sleep. He stroked her hair absentmindedly, staring at the black ceiling for answers.

Everything he had ever wanted was in his grasp. This was the one time when everything should have been okay; this was the life that he had yearned for, cried over.

And now he had to let it all go.

Well, he didn't _have_ to. But he knew that this would nag him, would gnaw on the edges of his soul until the guilt threw him over the deep end.

Coming to a decision, he crawled out of their bed, springs creaking. He dressed quickly, silently. Before he left, he paused by the side of the bed.

He laid his hand on Iris's soft cheek. "I'm so sorry, Iris. I love you so much." He kissed her forehead, lingering. "But I have to do this."

Lavender and honey. It was everywhere, in his clothes, in his mind.

Tears in his eyes, Barry ran out of the room in a blur of light.

Iris wouldn't even know he had left.

* * *

"Why am I here?" Barry grumbled. He stood at the door to his parents' home, his old home, the place that started it all. He was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Deep down inside, he knew that he couldn't bear to leave his mom again without one more chance to say good-bye.

With trembling fingers, he unlocked the door and stepped through, nostalgia sweeping over him—

"Barry?"

Speak of the devil. His mother was in her nightgown, wide awake and more than a little alarmed that her son had randomly showed up at 3 AM. "What are you doing here?" she asked, curious.

Barry's mouth opened and closed several times.

Boredom? Sleepwalking? Every excuse that came into mind was lame.

"I—" _I am so not emotionally ready for this_. "Why are you here?" he asked instead, flustered.

She raised an eyebrow pointedly. "I couldn't sleep."

"Ah." Barry casually dropped onto the family couch. "Insomnia?"

His mother shook her head, settling on the side opposite of her son. "Bad dreams."

"About what?"

Her finger played with the fringe on the couch. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"If you say so." She brushed her hair behind her ear. "I've had it more than once so I know it pretty well. Basically, I'm kneeling in the middle of this room, and these… _things_ are going around my head, so fast that I can't see what they are. But I feel so scared, and I'm screaming bloody murder. And then you and your father come down—you're only a small boy for some reason—and we're all screaming. A-and then—" She shudders. "Something stabs me. Hard. Right in the heart. And then I wake up." She glanced at her son. "Barry?"

He was silent. All he could think about was a man named Cisco Ramon in another world, who had dreams and visions of a death that both happened and didn't happen. _Schrödinger's murder_.

His face said it all. "It's real, isn't it?" she whispered. A weight settled on her shoulders. "I knew it. It just felt so real. Every single time that monster stabbed me, it actually _hurt_. I could feel it when I woke up, this burning." She closed her eyes. "I wanted to get medicine… but I knew that whatever this was, it was different."

"And you." She directed her words at Barry now. "One day, you were different, too. At first, I thought I was just being ridiculous. What mother would ever suspect her own child of being a fraud?" She laughed bitterly. "I think I always knew that my son was not the son I'd known."

That shook Barry from his trance. "I'm still your son, Mom," he insisted, hurt. " _Your_ Barry."

"You're just so much… older. Sadder." She grabbed his hands in hers, eyes boring into him with a wild desperation. "What happened to you, Barry?" Her voice was a whisper, a tremble in the air. "Why am I having these dreams? What's going on?"

Barry met her gaze, and felt the weight of the past few years drop onto his back, Atlas against his crimes.

He could have lied.

But if he had learned anything from Oliver Queen, it's that lying is only an investment in pain, with added interest.

So Barry told her everything. From changed timelines and Reverse Flashes to lightning bolts and killer sharks. Of Patty Spivots and Iris Wells, wise-cracking Cisco Ramons and Harrison Wells that he still never understood fully. For the next hour the only sound in the house was Barry's tale, intricately weaving together the story of his life, one that she would never know. When he arrived at the tale of two Billy Jr.'s., his mother's breath hitched.

"Mom," he finished, his voice shaking. "It's all my fault. Everything that happened to him, everything that happened to all those people he killed." He buried his head in his hands.

"And now what?"

He hesitated. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I was going to fix what I did, but—" He bit his lip. "Part of me doesn't want to give up what I have. I worked so hard for it, I thought I deserved it." Barry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the burn of his tears. "Billy was right. Caring about people just gets them hurt."

"Oh, Barry." She reached out, smoothed down the unruly hair on the crown of his head. "You've kept this locked up all this time?"

His silence was confirmation enough.

"Barry, you're not the only one going through this." She paused. "It's okay to be sad, Barry; you should be. But this goes beyond Billy Jr. and all those people he killed. Before you were the Flash, you were a little boy that was just as scared of the world as he was angry. But you weren't alone."

"The human condition is a long, constant struggle. Every person on this planet is trying every day to understand what it means to be alive, what _they_ mean, what purpose they serve. And I think we're so caught up in everything else in life that we forget that this burden is lighter when it is spread across millions of shoulders than just one."

"Every person is entitled to a future filled with hope of a better life." She gave him a stern look. "The Flash you may be, but the universe is much more than just your future."

Her words made him feel so small. Barry reveled in the warmth of her embrace. "When did you get so smart?" he muttered, his words muffled against her shoulder.

She smiled at him with so much warmth, bright as the sun. "When did you become so brave?"

"I'm not brave. I've made so many mistakes."

"You're human. And mistakes or not, brave or not, you have the courage to recognize when you are wrong." He felt her hesitate. "And the courage to know what you have to do."

"I'm so sorry, Mom." His throat was thick with shame. "I thought I could save you…"

"Don't apologize to me, Barry. You gave me the greatest gift I could ever imagine." She held his hands. "You helped me find my purpose. I can rest easy knowing that my life saved others and gave birth to the best superhero in the world. But most of all, you showed me the most beautiful, kind, and compassionate young man I have ever seen—one that I am so very proud to call my own son."

Barry was glad that it was his mom here. He didn't think he could comfortably cry this much in front of anyone else.

He got to his feet, dragging his mother with him. "This was what I wanted for the longest time." He gnawed on his cheek. "For forever, really. You, me, and Dad."

She was crying openly too at this point, but managed to keep herself mostly composed. "Nothing lasts forever, Barry. It hurts but it may be the only way."

"Maya Angelou?"

"Kanye West."

Despite everything, Barry smiled. There was a sense of finality with their every movement and word, a deliberateness that made you hold your breath. Two tight-ropers tiptoeing between realities.

She drew him close, and he bowed his head slightly so that she could kiss his forehead in the way only a mother could. "I'll always be watching over you. Whenever, wherever." A sob wracked her body but she remained strong and steady. An anchor in his whirling universe.

"Now run, Barry," she whispered. "Run."

He squeezed her hand tight. Remembering the color of her eyes, her voice. Her selflessness. Her love.

And then he was gone.

 **Next chapter will be the final update in this story. It's short, I know; it's mainly to get me back into the groove of writing.**

 **As always, please leave a review if you can! :)**


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